


i'll do anything you ask, so long as it's you asking

by toomuchsky



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Gen, Silverflint if you squint, the sea is basically a character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-20 22:43:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16564517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchsky/pseuds/toomuchsky
Summary: nestled between the sea and stars, their crew to their back, and the unspoken future in front of them, john silver and captain flint have a conversation about their relationship.





	i'll do anything you ask, so long as it's you asking

**Author's Note:**

> my first silverflint drabble!!! i finished black sails like two days and i literally already want to rewatch it i can't stop thinking about this damn show and this damn relationship. anyway, come scream at me about the show at @toomuchsky on tumblr. 
> 
> set somewhere between season 3 and 4

The ship creaks all around John, like old bones, and it reminds him of dead things. The only thing louder is the roar of the water beneath him, waves spraying him with salt and brine as he stands on the balcony, staring out into the night.

He hates the sea. John’s always hated the sea. It’d taken so much from him, held too many of his secrets within its depths. And he knows it’s silly, but sometimes the waves sound like they’re mocking him. And sometimes the insults are in the voices of his ghosts, reaching back through the past to continue to torment him. 

He hadn’t meant to end up back on it, and when he had, it had taken him two full weeks to find his sea legs, on that merchant ship Flint’s crew had found him at all those years ago. None of the other sailors on the ship had been kind about it. 

He’s not entirely sure he’s found them, yet.

His stump is  _ aching _ . 

Here, on Flint’s balcony at the stern of the ship, with only the stars and the sea as witness, he lets himself sit down and detach the metal leg. He breathes a sigh of relief as it comes off.  _ Damn _ , it still hurts so much. The breeze from the sea stings as it touches the skin. It shouldn’t hurt so much - he knows he’s been putting too much pressure on it, has been told over and over again that he’s trying to do too much too fast with it, but - 

He’s responsible for these men now. He’s responsible for  _ Flint _ . 

He sits, sticking his legs through the railing to hang off the end of the ship, dangling over oblivion, and lets himself breathe for a second. He hasn’t done this in a while - just let himself be John, not Mr. Silver, not Quartermaster, not Long John Silver, but just -  _ John _ . 

He doesn’t know if he knows who that is, anymore, either. 

He’s sure the sea remembers though, and maybe that’s why he’s out here, staring into its inky depths as if it might be able to find him again. 

The door to the balcony opens. John doesn’t have to look over to know who it is. At this point he can recognize this man by the way his footsteps fall, by the way his coat swishes around his knees, by the way the fucking  _ air  _ parts in front of him, like he’s forcing the elements, the world, to make room for him. 

He wonders if there was ever a time that that man hadn’t been screaming for the world to pay attention to him. He wonders how exhausting that must be, to be so constantly judged and be so constantly found wanting. 

Lately, Flint’s control over the elements have been working on the air inside John’s lungs, too, and he suddenly can’t  _ breathe  _ as Flint sits next to him before he says anything, slotting his legs through the railing as well, maneuvering so that their thighs are only slightly touching. 

The sea roils beneath them, sending up another spray of salt water. 

“Not staying at the party?” Flint says, voice gruff with drink, hair blowing back in the sea breeze. 

When he had first met Flint, he’d been shocked by how unreadable the man was, how closed off, how impossible to charm and wile like he’d become so good at doing by that point. He hadn’t been able to find any insecurity to exploit, any crack to burrow into, any chinks in his armor. And for a man like John Silver, whose entire existence depended on being able to read people without being read, he’d instantly recoiled. 

John shrugs, trying not to notice the way their shoulders brush. “You can only listen to the story of how you bashed a man’s face in so many times before it gets old.” He can still hear the music and the laughter of the men from here, though, and misses them a little. 

Flint huffs a breath of laughter, and John can see his smirk in his mind’s eye without having to turn. He does anyway. He’s prepared himself for the way the moonlight snags on Flint’s features, the rugged nose and bright red hair muted by the darkness, and the way his heart stutters when he catches his eye. What he’s not prepared for is the soft look in Flint’s eyes as he looks at John, or the smile on his lips. 

Sitting, it felt strange to be able to look Flint in the eye. He’d become so accustomed to the giant in his memories that it overlaid over reality sometimes. Looking up to Flint felt right - felt like the way the world was supposed to work. Looking at him like equals, like partners - no matter how many times he’d advocated for it - felt wrong. 

He looks away again. 

“It’s definitely something I’d rather not do again for a long time,” John says finally. 

It had taken him a while to realize that the only reason that Flint was unreadable to him was because he was looking at the wrong person. Look for McGraw, and you’d find James. And by the time he got to know James, it was too late. 

He’d do anything James asked, so long as it was James who was asking. 

“But will you?” Flint asks, softly. It sounds like a plea. Under the moonlight, with their bodies barely brushing each other, the sea underneath them, John hears the litany of the other questions Flint wants to ask, the most pressing of them being:  _ Will you still follow me?  _

John smiles. “Do you really not know what my answer will be at this point?” He takes a risk, touches his shoulder to Flint’s, slow and deliberate. Lets his legs relax and push into Flint’s as well.  

Flints leans on John’s shoulder, just as deliberate, and the unspoken thing between them yawns larger. “Still nice to hear it, sometimes.” 

There’s never been a lot of certainty in John’s life, but some things he knows: the sun will rise, and the moon will set. The ale at the whorehouse is strictly better than the ale at Eleanor’s tavern. If there’s a piece of gossip in Nassau, Max has definitely heard of it. 

When Silver leads, Flint follows. When Flint leads, Silver follows. 

“If you asked,” John says, finally. “I would follow you back into hell.” 

The sea is getting choppier below, loud and unforgiving, wailing accusingly. 

“On one condition,” he says again, because he has to. He feels Flint’s body tense next to him, mind already coming up with a thousand ways John could betray him and a thousand possible ways to persuade him back to Flint’s side.

He turns to look at Flint again, to watch his face as he says, “Just don’t ask me to lead anyone else there.” 


End file.
